“Come to bed?” His voice, rough from sleep and overuse, breaks through the darkness and finds you where you sit, perched on the edge of the bed like a bird poised to take flight. You feel him move, hear the rustle of the bedsheets, and then he’s behind you, right behind you, warm and inviting. He wraps his arms around you, holding you back against his chest, anchoring himself to you and you to the bed. “Don’t fly away just yet.”
-rjm
loose threads
a smattering of things
about
Jo McCrory is a writer and artist living in northern California.
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It’s a special blend of sadness One I have curated over the years Made from the soft fruit of your pain And the bitter rind that protects it Blended with the salt from my tears And the wisp of my breath when I die for you in the night Robust with all of the words we never got to share With the delicate after taste Of summer mountain air on your skin -rjm
